


I'll sleep with you anon

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Necrophilia, POV Arya Stark, POV Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: After years of having nightmares about the crypts at Winterfell, Jon never imagined he’d end up spending the better part of his days there.OR Jon can't deal with Sansa's death, so he keeps her mummified corpse in the crypts and visits her every night.(Tagged 'Major Character Death' because Sansa is already dead and I know some people would like the chance to filter that out)Written for JonSansa Week Day 3: Locations: the Winterfell cryptsMix of books and show verseDon't like, don't read, I guess. Just saying, I didn't add the necrophilia tag just for lolz. But that part is mostly sad and only a little creepy/gross (I hope).





	I'll sleep with you anon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wightjon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wightjon/gifts).



> "Sansa dying and Jon putting her in the crypts with the Old kings of winter and sort of keeping her as a mummified beautiful corpse? Hoping he can bring her back to life but knowing that being a walking corpse sucks so just going down and lying in her coffin with her. Google Count Carl von Cosel If you want a really romantic possible jonsa necrophilia au. Having sex with her and keeping her in her wolf bit dress. I’m so glad I can finally talk about this kink! Thanks so much"
> 
> I found this ask you received in my likes and thought it was a really good prompt. I hope you'll like it! And hopefully the anon finds it too!

It's been snowing all day, and looking up from the nook in the wall where she's hiding to overlook the courtyard, Arya can hear the words inside her mind, echoing off the stone.  _Winter is coming._ It's his voice, the voice she'll be missing for the rest of her days, the voice she'll never hear again. And it would be bearable, if only she had someone to share her grief with. It's a lesson she's learned, despite herself. Strength is worth very little when you're all alone, and its price so often is loneliness.

Her eyes flicker to the shift in the air she can detect and for a moment she believes her mind is playing tricks on her, as she always does, even for only an instant, when Jon appears in her vision. Perhaps it's even worse tonight, because she's thinking about Father, and the resemblance is almost too much to bear. If she could, she'd go to him, punch him on the arm or sneak up on him, only to end up furiously wiping away the tears stinging her eyes when she looks too long at his stupid face. It wouldn't be unbearable, if he'd muss up her hair and pull her close, sighing "little sister" in that wistful, tender way only he can.

She won't go to him. He's already halfway across the courtyard, and she knows where he's heading. It wouldn't do to interrupt him now. He'd smile and say: "Up for another match on the morrow?" or "Don't stay up too late sneaking around tonight," before continuing on his way. It's almost comical, that after years of having nightmares about the crypts in the bowels of Winterfell, Jon has ended up spending all of his nights there, but Arya won't laugh, not even cold or bitterly, lest the tears she's been holding back start flowing, urged on by the release of such a sound.

"Father!" a gleeful voice cries out, and it's too bright a sound, too loud. It doesn't take her long to locate the source of it. Little Robb is dashing through the mud, propelling himself toward Jon, Rickon on his heels and the fat maester hobbling after them as fast as his feet can carry him. Arya can't stand to look at him. She hates him more than all the monsters who have ever hurt their family. What he's done to Jon is worse even than his brothers of the Night's Watch cornering him in the snow to stab him to death.

Jon was mad with grief those first days. Arya had seen him fierce and hungry, livid even, like the wolf he was, but that was the first time she spotted a glimpse of the dragon in him. He almost killed the Red Woman when she refused him, furious hands wrapped around her white throat, the metal of her her choker pressing angry red lines into the pale skin.

Perhaps they should have let him squeeze the life from her. Perhaps it would have brought him back to his senses. Arya sometimes wishes they would have, but Davos, Tormund and the Hound had pulled him off her, and after she told Jon Melisandre had been right. She'd seen Lady Stoneheart, and Jon knew what it was like to return from that abyss, so he agreed. She believed in that moment he'd start moving forward, that there was hope for him.

As she sees him send his son off to bed with a distracted kiss to his hair and a curt nod to Samwell Tarly, Rickon already beyond his reach with a sullen look on his face, she knows that there is none. She turns away, wandering off to the Godswood. Perhaps she'll sit down by the heart tree, close her eyes and slip into Nymeria's skin, hunt with her, see the woods through her eyes, feel the thrill of it all and quench the thirst inside of her with the taste of a fresh kill.

The sound of the trees around her and the scent of the thousands of layers of the forest floor underneath her feet is soothing, and she inhales deeply, imagining it would be even more satisfying if she was inside her direwolf right now. 

Yet isn't that what started it all for Jon? He had lived inside Ghost for moons when he'd returned from the dead, and he still does now, most of his waking hours. Arya doesn't know what brought him back that first time— she does, but if she refuses to acknowledge it, she can stop herself from extinguishing that spark of hope that he still has a chance to come back and be Jon again. 

She chews on her lip, a bad habit she still hasn't been able to shake. It holds back the stupid tears, but not the pointless question. If she had found Jon first, could she have been enough for him? The taste in her mouth is all the more bitter, because she knows, that once, in another lifetime, she would have been more than enough for him. She could have been his everything.

She doesn't resent her sister, and she has never been jealous, she's just lonely. They'd all changed, Jon was a different Jon, Sansa was not the Sansa she'd once been, and there were times when Arya could scarcely remember the girl she'd used to be. They'd all changed and Jon and Sansa had found a comfort in each other she'd never understand, but it wasn't that bad, because, even after years of separation, her and Jon, that was still the same. 

Now she's alone again, lonelier than she ever was as a scared little girl far away from home. She presses her knuckles into her eyes and kicks up some leaves. There's a whisper on the wind, a warmth that shouldn't be there, one she's felt before, so she balls her fists and screams: "Leave me alone, you stupid tree!"

***

Jon descends the last three steps and puts his torch in a sconce. "Good evening, sweetling," he calls out, unfastening his cloak and letting it drop to the floor.

He walks around the sarcophagus to the narrow table beside it and replaces some of the shortest candles with new ones. He can feel her eyes on him and his spine tingles pleasantly. 

He turns around, crossing his arms over the cool stone edge to gaze down at her. Sansa's smiling and she's wearing the pretty dress with the wolf embroidered over her bosom. 

"That dress again?" he asks, his lips curling up. "You know me too well. I really like the wolf bit."

He leans down to press a quick peck to her lips. She smells like roses and lavender. "Do you want me to brush your hair later?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "I knew you would. Just let me— I brought something for you."

Her face lights up and it warms his heart. She's always liked surprises.

"Patience, love," he tells her, turning away to unwrap the lemon cakes he ordered the cooks to make.

"No peeking!" He warns her.

He shows her one of the cakes and breaks off a small piece to taste it, trying to tempt her. His reward is an icy glare.

"I know," he sighs. "I'm a tease.  Can you forgive me?"

Her silent smile answers his question.

He hauls himself over the edge of the sarcophagus to lie down beside her, pulling her into his arms.

"How was your day, sweetling?" he asks. "Have you missed me?" She's cold, so he holds her closer. 

He decides to tell her about his own day. The new steward slipped on a patch of ice and was certain he wouldn't be able to sit down for a week.

At three Robb is already becoming a prodigy with a wooden sword. "I suppose you don't like that too much, but I swear you'd be proud if you could see him."

Rickon is still as wild as ever, but he's starting to take to his role as King in the North. He's already dreaming about his coronation.

Jon wishes she could talk to Arya. She still refuses to find herself a husband, even though Jon can tell that she's lonely. Perhaps a visit to the Vale or to Riverrun would help lift her spirits. Winter is coming, but that wouldn't be enough to hold her back.

"And it will be over before you know it. I'll bring you the first spring flowers, so you can put them in your hair." He nuzzles into her cheek and they lie together in silence for a while.

He lifts a hand to brush her hair from her face, and his fingers graze over her sharp cheekbone. "You should eat your lemon cakes," he sighs. "You're getting too thin."

That comment doesn't seem to please her.

"Of course I think you're still beautiful!" he tries to defend himself. "Come on, sweetling, eat something, for me."

It's no use, no matter how he tries to coax her into trying a bite, she won't budge, so he ends up eating the cake himself.

He closes his eyes and sighs. "I know you're tired, Sansa, but I think we should have a feast. I'll even dance with you. I know you'll like it. Tell me you'll consider it?"

She doesn't object, making him feel rather pleased with himself. He presses their foreheads together. "There's something else... I think Robb should have a brother or a sister..." 

He shifts, and her hand brushes the front of his breeches. He didn't expect her to be so eager.

"You little minx," he growls. He grabs a handful of her skirts, bunching the fabric in his fingers until he can slip his hand under it. 

He trails his hand up over the smooth, cool silk of her stockings until he can cup her mound. He groans, she's not wearing any smallclothes. Gently, he pries her thighs apart to find her cold there too, but it doesn't matter, he's warm enough for the both of them.

He buries his face in her neck and thrusts against her hip, his hardening manhood already hungry for the friction. He pulls his arm free so he can roll on top of her, hands roaming over her breasts and curves.

She smiles up at him and his eyes fall on the vial of oil in her left hand.

"Sansa," he groans, untying his breeches to lather himself. He wraps his arms around her to hold her close and sinks between her thighs, whispering: "I love you, sweet girl."

He closes his eyes, cheek pressed against her left breast, and he can hear her sighing:  _"Oh, Jon, I love you."_

***

Arya hugs her knees as she leans into the wall, ignoring the freezing cold seeping into her bones. She should be disgusted by what she just witnessed, but she only feels as cold and empty as Jon.

It's easily the worst feeling in the world, and one she knows well. For years she tried to fill it with anger, or by trying to be no one, knowing anything's better than allowing that pain in.

Jon isn't angry or numb, as long as the nights last, he seems happy in this world of delusion he's created for himself. She wishes he'd snap out of it. She dreads the moment he might. 

It wouldn't take much to free him from this prison, a slip down a dark flight of stairs would do the trick. Nobody would care too much to look into it. They'd all feel relief that their former king was no longer suffering.

Jon said there was nothing beyond the veil, but perhaps he just doesn't remember, or maybe he didn't see anything because he was always meant to return. The Faceless Men used to call death a gift, and Arya thinks in Jon's case, that would be true.

 _Don't worry, big brother,_ she thinks with a wistful smile. _You'll see her again. Soon._

 


End file.
